Branded
by LynstHolin
Summary: DRARRY At sixteen, Draco Malfoy has run away from home and is eking out a living playing guitar. He doesn't expect to run into Harry Potter, who has left the wizarding world in disgrace.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: suggestiveness, mild language, a hint of blood and violence.

...

After a gig, Draco was always too keyed up to just go home. Once he had his guitar and amp secured, he headed for Dancey's, a small, less-than-legal afterhours club tucked away in the back of a cellar. He liked its disreputable atmosphere. The clientele was a mixture of rentboys, married men escaping their closets long enough to get some strange, petty criminals, and one ancient queen named Percival who traded tales of his sexual exploits during the Blitz for drinks.

Draco ordered a pint of Dancey's cheapest and and surveyed the crowd. His attention was drawn to a skinny boy with a buzzcut he'd never seen at the club before. The boy's tight jeans and unbuttoned shirt screamed rentboy. Draco was shocked when he finally registered the lightning-bolt shaped scar on the boy's forehead. The lack of hair and glasses, in addition to how tall he'd gotten since Draco'd last seen him, had made the Boy Who Lived almost unrecognizable.

In the wake of the his interview with Rita Skeeter in the Quibbler, in which he'd named several people he accused of being present at the physical rebirth of Voldemort, Potter had been declared guilty of libel and slander. His fortune had been seized and distributed to his victims. Disgraced and completely lacking in credibility, he'd dropped out of Hogwarts and disappeared from the wizarding world.

Draco sucked down the last of his brew and walked to the other end of the bar, intent on satisfying his curiousity. "Potter?"

It was clear that Harry was less than pleased to see Draco. A grimace briefly twisted his face before he put on a mask of indifference. He leaned back against the bar so his shirt fell all the way open and spread his thighs on the stool. "See anything you like, Malfoy? Perhaps you could give me back some of the money your father took from me."

Draco couldn't suppress a twinge of lust. Potter had turned out surprisingly shaggable. "Sorry. I'm just a penniless musician."

Harry tilted his head, slanting up a look through thick, dark eye-lashes. For someone who'd been utterly clueless about flirting while in school, he'd learned very fast. "You're lying."

"I'm just another sixteen-year-old runaway like you. All I've got in my pocket is a pound coin and a pack of gum."

Potter's eyes went hard. "Move along, then. I've got a living to make."

"How did you end up whoring?"

Potter spun his stool around so his back was to Draco. "Conversation over."

...

Lucius Malfoy had never approved of wizards playing electric guitars, even if they were actually amplified by magic. Any time a song with electric guitar came on the WWN, Lucius would turn the wireless off. He believed electric guitars were too Mugglish, and that the sounds they made aroused the baser passions. Perhaps the latter was true; Muggle girls did like to throw themselves at Draco when he played.

Draco was playing in his flat, with practice headphones on to spare his neighbors. He'd learned from Blaise Zabini, who'd brought his magic-run guitar to school with him every year. Blaise was in a band these days, too, but it was a wizarding band. Their worlds didn't intersect anymore.

As his fingers pounded out a three-chord Clash song, he pictured Potter in his mind. The wiry body with its concave stomach, the eyes that took everything in but tried to give nothing away... The irony of it all was that Potter had been right about everything. Life at Malfoy Manor had been getting increasingly unbearable for Draco, and the last straw had been the Dark Lord's visits. He'd kept _touching_ Draco. Draco had grabbed the guitar he'd kept hidden from his father and a bag of Muggle-style clothes, and had taken off in the middle of the night.

Fortunately, his guitar-playing was adequate enough for him join a band that actually played in low-rent bars and clubs, not just garages. He also had an acoustic guitar for street busking. If he hadn't been able to scratch out a meager living as a musician, he might have had to resort to selling his body, too; though, when he thought about it, he figure'd he'd find himself a rich, middle-aged sugar daddy. It was a tempting idea at times, especially on nights when the punters threw bottles at the stage... and _especially _on nights when the bottles were full of piss.

But Draco kept playing, even when drunks tried to set his shoulder-length hair on fire, or tossed firecrackers at him, or stole his coat. The rush he got from playing in some small, dirty club, the music so loud it made his guts vibrate, was like nothing else in the world. The heckling had made him thicker-skinned. He was no longer the boy who shored up his fragile vanity by lashing out at others.

His mind circled back around to Potter. What had happened to him? It was, what, a year and a half since Potter's disgrace? What had happened in that time? _Why am I so curious_? he asked himself. The throb he felt below his belt when he remembered the boy leaning back on the barstool, bony chest exposed, answered his question. It was just sex.

...

Draco thought that he wouldn't see Potter again after that first night, but the boy continued to work the clientele at Dancey's. His pimp had an understanding with the club's owner. The married men that frequented the club did seem to love him. He ignored Draco's gaze night after night as he flirted and conducted business.

Tonight, Potter was showing a ridiculous amount of skin. The waistband of his jeans had been cut off, and if they rode his skinny hips any lower... _damn_. The thin trail of dark hair that started below Harry's belly-button made Draco's mouth water. This was a novel experience for Draco, being the one who lusted fruitlessly instead of being the unattainable object of desire. _Who the hell does he think he is? He's just some streetboy, and I'm a Malfoy_. As soon as the thought popped into his head, he laughed at himself. These days, Draco himself was just a step up from being an urchin.

Potter was leaning on the bar with his rump in the air like a cat in heat, getting the attention of a man who was trying hard to disguise his posh accent. Draco had to pull his coat over his lap. The man slid a perfectly-manicured hand across Potter's bared stomach, and Draco felt a spasm of rage. _I don't want anyone else to touch him. I want him to be all mine._

...

Draco started thinking of that part of himself as the Snake, the part of him that combined his old self-protective viciousness with a newer feeling of obsessive desire. Every time he saw Potter walking out of Dancey's with another man, the Snake rose up inside him and hissed, baring its venom-dripping fangs. He wanted to hit Potter, to feel his skin bruise under his fists. He wanted to kiss him so hard he bled. He wanted to be his savior and rescue him from the life of a whore. He wanted to feel those skinny legs wrapped around him.

Mostly, Draco _wanted_.

...

"I'm working," Potter said in a bored voice.

"I've got money. I've been saving up. See?" Draco pulled out a handful of notes.

Potter gave him a measuring look. "You could get most of the blokes here just by nodding at them. Why do you need it buy it?"

"I'm not buying _it_, I'm buying _you_."

Potter stubbed out his cigarette. "All right. We'll go to your place."

"My flatmates are there. All four of them. Let's just go in the storage closet in the hall."

Smirking, Potter said, "I should have know that you'd be dirty. I get the money up front." . As soon as they were inside the closet, among rusty paint cans and broken vacuum cleaners and mouse traps baited with peanut butter, Draco pushed Potter up against the back of the door. He pulled a string and the closet light turned on. He wanted to _see _Potter. "What do you want?" the green-eyed boy asked.

"I want this." Draco leaned in for a kiss.

Potter twisted his face away. "I don't _kiss_. I'm a whore, remember?"

"I'll give you all my money just for a kiss."

"Just one kiss?"

"Yes."

Potter counted the notes and tucked them into his pocket. "All right, then."

Draco made it a long, hard kiss, forcing Potter's lips apart. The Snake uncoiled in his belly. Draco was sure he was hurting the other boy, but Potter didn't make a sound. The kiss ended when he tasted blood, but he wasn't sure if it was Potter's or his.

Wiping his lips, Potter said, "I'll be going. I hope it was worth it."

The Snake hissed and spat. When the dark-haired boy turned, Draco grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him back. "Don't go."

Potter pulled his arm away. "I'll tell Max if you hurt me."

Ah, yes, Max the pimp. A fireplug of a man with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Draco put his arms on either side of Potter, trapping him. "I just want to know something. How did you come to this?"

The corners of Potter's mouth turned down and his eyes went beady. "Let. Me. Go."

The Snake roared in denial, but Draco had enough self-control to to back away and let the other boy leave.

...

Draco flipped through a copy of the Guardian someone had left at Dancey's. There was an over-abundance of stories about strange accidents: passenger trains derailing, ships vanishing, airplanes exploding in mid-air. The Muggles had no idea that war had been declared on them. He set the paper down on the bar and stretched his arms over his head, ignoring the looks the married men gave him; he had no interest in being some closet case's backstreet indiscretion.

The Snake began to slither around low in his gut when Draco saw Potter working the room, wearing jeans with a rip that exposed the place where his thigh turned into buttock. Instead of his usual beer, Draco ordered a shot of whiskey, hoping to still the roiling in his stomach by getting flat-out drunk. _Just leave. Go home. Don't come back here,_ he told himself. In the mirror behind the bar, he could see the purple shadows that sleeplessness had left beneath his eyes. He'd lost weight, too; his black jeans hung on his hip-bones. He might as well be a drug addict.

One shot turned into two. A middle-aged man with a gold wedding ring bought him a third. By this time, it was clear that whiskey just made the Snake noisier, but Draco couldn't seem to stop. After the fifth shot, he saw a man reaching out to put his hand on Potter's tight little arse. The Snake leapt into Draco's throat.

The feral sound that came from Draco made Potter startle like a deer. The man glared at Draco. "What are you-" Draco pulled his wand from his coat pocket and Stunned the man. Harry gaped. A hubbub drowned out the music from the CD jukebox as the club patrons tried to understand what they'd just seen. Draco made a small_ Imperio_, just enough to allow him to frog-march Potter out of the club.

"Stop it, Malfoy!" Potter bared his teeth.

"No." Draco pulled the boy into a trash-strewn alley and threw him up against a rough brick wall. The two boys stared at each other. "I can't stop thinking about you. I just want to-I just want to-"

A shadow entered the alley. "What the hell do you think you're doing to my boy?" It was Max. Draco threw another Stunning spell.

The snake was screaming and thrashing its tail. Draco put a hand under Potter's jaw, fighting the impulse to squeeze hard enough to leave marks. "There's no point in fighting, really. I want you, and I'll get you, one way or another."

Max stirred feebly. "You really want that junkie whore?" the pimp wheezed. Draco Stunned him again.

"Are you really a junkie?" Draco asked Potter.

Green eyes evaded Draco's gaze. "Of course not! Look at my arms. There aren't any tracks."

"Show me your feet."

"What?"

"There was a drummer in my band who shot up in his feet. Take your shoes off or I'll take them off for you."

In the dim illumination that fltered into the alley from the streetlights, Draco could see Potter squeeze his eyes shut. "I don't do heroin for fun. I do it because it's the only thing that keeps Voldemort out of my head."

"I've got some pretty nasty memories of the Dark Lord, myself, but they don't drive me to stick needles in my feet."

Potter shook his head. "That's not it. He really can get inside my head. We're connected because of the scar. If I don't shoot up regularly, he-he learns things about me, and he uses them against me."

Draco's first impulse was to think that Potter was delusional, but, even though popular opinion regarded Potter to be either a liar or mentally ill, Draco knew that everything else the boy had said about the Dark Lord was true. He stroked the fingers of one hand down Potter's face. The Snake quieted and curled up, allowing an unfamiliar feeling to pierce Draco through the heart. Potter had never had a chance; the Dark Lord had marked him when he was only a year old. The Dark Lord had tried to Mark Draco, too. Draco had run away before that could happen, but there were times that he still could sense where the Dark Lord had touched him. The caress of those scaly hands was like an ice-cold brand that no one could see.

"We're alike, Harry." Draco pulled the boy close. Potter trembled in his arms. His body tensed, but his hands clutched at Draco. "We're alike. You belong with me. You belong to me. You belong to me."


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: rough language, suggestiveness, some violence.

...

Draco stared at himself in the fly-specked mirror. His eyes were wild, white visible all around the irises. One of his flatmates pounded on the bathroom door. "Oi! Hurry up!" Draco's face twisted, and he spat at his reflection. _How could I have fucked things up so badly_? he asked himself. He'd had Harry, and he'd lost Harry. It was his own stupid fault. He'd let himself lose control.

...

Just yesterday:

Harry fidgeted in the rickety folding chair. "What if this doesn't work?" he asked for the fiftieth time.

"How will we know if we don't try?" Draco draped an arm possessively around Harry. He lowered his voice. "You don't want to wait until you look like some of the other people here, do you?"

The waiting room of the methadone clinic was packed. Some of the people still looked normal, but others were missing teeth, or had scarred-up arms, or were just prematurely aged. Harry shook his head. "But I can't help worrying. If-if _he_ finds me, you'll be in danger, too."

"Did he have something to do with what happened to Sirius Black?" Draco asked, stroking Harry's cheek to soften the question. Over a year ago, twenty-three people had been killed when several houses on Grimmauld Place had exploded. The fugitive Sirius had been among the victims.

Harry looked at the floor. "Yes. Sirius taught me how to Apparate, so when Voldemort came, I left. Sirius didn't."

"I'm sorry." Draco kissed Harry. He couldn't stop kissing Harry, it seemed. He wanted his lips on the black-haired boy twenty-four hours a day. He wanted to sink his teeth into him. He wanted to _devour_ him. And he feared that if Harry knew of the depth and violence of his feelings, he would be frightened away.

By the time Harry's turn came, he was starting to get the shakes, and he drank the methadone from the plastic cup in one gulp. Draco picked his guitar up from the floor, and the two boys headed out to the street. Draco liked to watch their reflections in the shop windows they passed: two tall, slim boys, one with short hair and one with long, knees sticking out of the rips in their jeans. He liked seeing his arm draped across Harry's shoulders. "Are you feeling better, baby?" Draco could feel that the shakes were gone.

"Yeah. I think it's working."

Draco embraced Harry and kissed him again. He could feel the other boy smiling against his lips. Kissing was all he'd done in with Harry so far. It had been a week since Draco had finally been able to convince Harry to move in with him. They slept, spooned together, on a rug and a pile of pillows in a corner of the living room of the flat they shared with four other boys. The feel of Harry's body against his made Draco burn with want, but getting up for a wank in the bathoom woke Harry. Draco laid awake for a couple of hours every night until his body calmed down. Waiting for Harry to make the first move made the Snake stir restlessly in Draco's belly, but he knew it was the only way. After selling his body for so many months, Harry had to learn how to associate sex with affection and intimacy. He had to learn to trust.

They'd reached Draco's corner. He set his guitar case on the sidewalk and opened it up, taking out a battered acoustic guitar. He slung the strap over his shoulder and plucked the strings, checking to make sure it was still in tune. A few pedestrians slowed to look at the strikingly blond boy. He tucked his hair behind his ears, then launched into 'Wonderwall'. He didn't have the greatest singing voice, but it had a raspiness that people found pleasing.

A few feet away, Harry had slipped his glasses on. They had a crack all the way across one lens. "Spare some change?" he asked the passersby. He'd taken his jacket off so people could see how thin he was. He looked so young and hungry and, because of the cracked glasses, so pathetic, that he did all right panhandling. He'd done it before, but he'd had to start hooking when his heroin habit got too expensive. Draco had tried begging, but there was too much of a whiff of Spoiled Rich Kid about him; he'd given up after just one afternoon, when he'd gained nothing but advice to go back to his mummy and daddy and some colorful new vocabulary words.

Some 50p coins landed in Draco's guitar case. He launched into a wizard song, an old children's ditty about about the Goblin Rebellions. A Knut was tossed in the case. After that, he did 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'Champagne Supernova' and 'Let It Be'. By that time, someone had given Harry a sandwich and a bottle of orange juice, which the boys shared.

A few hours later, they dropped Draco's guitar off at their flat, then headed to a corner shop for a bottle of whiskey. They ducked into an alley to drink a little, squatting with their backs against a wall. Draco slipped his tongue in Harry's mouth, tasting the slight burn of the cheap liquor. Harry leaned into him, letting his body mold to Draco's. The Snake twisted restlessly.

The streetlights were starting to turn on. "What do you want to do tonight?" Draco asked.

Harry looked above. A fire escape dangled low, just over head-height. "Let's go up." He jumped, snagging the bottom of the ladder, and hauled himself up, the muscles in his skinny arms knotting with the effort.

"What are you, part monkey?" Draco laughed.

"Come on!" Harry was halfway up the building, flashing the bottom of his behind through a tear in his jeans.

Draco tucked the whiskey bottle into his army surplus coat and pulled himself up onto the fire escape. "Have you considered wearing underpants? You don't need to advertise any more."

Up on the roof, they found a nest of blankets inside a non-functional ventilation unit. They laid them on the edge of the roof and sat with their feet dangling over the edge, sharing the bottle. As the sun went down, the street got busier, the pubs and clubs attracting a weekend crowd. Draco had been disappointed when his band's gig for the night had been cancelled, but now he was glad. Out in the autumn night with his first (and, he was sure, his only) love, the whiskey warming his blood and the breeze lifting his hair and caressing his neck, watching the neon and the patterns the people made as they swirled and eddied on the sidewalks... Draco was pretty sure this was the best night he'd had in his life so far. Harry turned to Draco and initiated a kiss-the first time he'd done that. Yes, this was a good night.

When the bottle was half empty, Draco screwed the top back on. Harry stood up and wandered to where the building they stood on abutted another. A step-hop, and he landed on the next building. Draco followed as Harry loped across the roof. "You're not going to jump that, are you?" Draco asked when he saw Harry surveying a meter-wide gap.

"This is nothing." With a running jump, Harry was on the next roof.

"You're insane!" Draco tried not to look down, but as he jumped, he saw a glass-strewn alley too far below his feet. They startled a couple having sex up against a utility shed. "Carry on," Draco called to them as he hurried after his boyfriend. Harry was already on the next rooftop, rousing pigeons from their roosts. When Draco caught up to him, he was looking down at the street that formed an impassible valley. "I guess we'll have to go down, now."

Back on street level, they decided to keep going down to the next Tube station, where they caught a train at random. They passed the bottle back and forth as they rode. At one stop, a group of teenagers got on. The boys were trying mightily to look 'street,' aping the clothes and speech of American rappers, but their upper class accents and general air of being well-taken care of gave them away. The girls were like a flock of tropical birds, all legs and bright colors. "You're going to love this party, Charlotte," one girl told another, "Her father doesn't even care."

"Is there really an indoor pool?" the other girl asked.

"Yeah, and a fully stocked bar and a game room."

Harry and Draco looked at each other. They didn't need to exchange a word. When the posh kids got off, the two boys followed them at a discreet distance.

The owner of the house the party was at must have been as rich as Lucius Malfoy to be able to afford such a home in London. Fully detached, three stories, a four-car garage and a brick wall running all around the property. A formal garden could bee seen to one side, with a lit pool running down its center. When Harry and Draco strolled through the open front door, they got some odd looks. They weren't dressed like any of the other guests, with their ragged clothes. Their jeans were unfashionably fitted; every other boy at the party wore theirs baggy and belted ludicrously low. "Who are you?" a boy challenged.

"I'm Nigel's cousin," Draco replied in his most Malfoyesque manner.

"Oh, from out of town?" a girl asked.

"Wiltshire." Ths answer seemed to satisfy everyone.

The foyer opened up into a spacious room where dozens of teens sprawled on couches and chairs getting stoned. "Boring," Draco said softly.

"Upstairs." Harry headed for a polished oak staircase. He found the master bedrooom easily. Draco tried not to think about why Harry would be so familiar with this sort of house. Harry opened a drawer in a bedside table and grinned triumphantly. "Everyone keeps this stuff in the same place." He pulled out condoms and a bottle of lube. He crawled onto the duvet-covered bed and knelt there, holding his discoveries out toward Draco. "Let's play." His eyes were a deeper green than Draco had ever seen them be before.

Draco could barely breathe. He imagined forcing the other boy down face-first and ravaging him; that's what the Snake wanted. Instead, he crawled into the middle of the enormous bed and tenderly unbuttoned Harry's shirt, using lips, tongue and teeth on the skin he bared. Next came the shoes and socks. Harry made a sound half-way between a giggle and a gasp when Draco sucked on his toes. He was on his back now, and he lifted his hips so Draco could peel his jeans down.

Draco was shaking as he started making love to Harry. "Say my name. Tell me you belong to me," he whispered.

"I belong to you, Draco."

That was when Draco started losing control. A part of him worried that he was hurting Harry, but he couldn't stop himself. Harry kept saying his name and clutching at his back, digging his nails in. "You're _mine_, you're _mine_," Draco repeated, like a chant, an incantation.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked, when he was able to speak again.

Harry smiled up at him. "Just a little sore. It stings." He kissed Draco on the nose. "I bet there's a nice big tub in the master bath."

There was. Draco turned the taps on full blast. Harry dumped in far too much bubble bath, and foam rose up in a huge wedge and fell over onto the floor. The boys grabbed handfuls of it and threw it at each other, laughing and ducking and sliding around on the wet floor. They got into the tub and fooled around until they were both pruney, then they dried each other off with huge, soft towels that came out of a special warmer. Back in the bedroom, Harry helped himself to boxer briefs, socks, and a tee shirt from the dresser, then tucked the lube and the rest of the condoms into his jeans pocket. He went to the bed and peeled the pillows out of their cases. "What are you doing, Harry?"

Harry handed Draco an empty pillow case. "We go to the kitchen next."

The kitchen at Malfoy Manor was an underground, dungeon-like space. Draco'd had no idea that kitchens such as this one existed. Huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows all along one wall, marble countertops, polished brass pans hanging from hooks, a breakfast nook with padded benches-after the tiny flat Draco had been living in for the past year, it seemed unbelievable to him that people had such a room just to _cook_ in.

Harry opened the stainless steel refrigerator and whooped happily. Four rib-eye steaks sat on a plate. He went rummaging through cupboards until he found plastic bags to put them in. Draco grabbed jars of olives and fancy condiments, then filled the rest of the pillow case with fresh fruit and vegetables. Harry found some shrimp and an unopened bottle of Stolichnaya Elit in the freezer.

Taking the subway home, they kissed, Harry climbing all over Draco. "This is most definitely the best night of my life," Draco told him.

"Shut up," mumbled a homeless man who was trying to sleep under a spread-out copy of the Daily Mail.

It was three in the morning when the got home. The smell of cooking steak and frying shrimp woke up their flatmates, and there was an orgy of eating. About six, Harry and Draco curled up together on their rug, and Draco fell asleep only a few moments after Harry did.

Harry was up at noon, starting to feel sick, so they went to the methadone clinic, and then to the street corner again to beg and busk. They were on a break, sitting on the curb to kiss and share a bottle of Coke when they heard, "Malfoy? Potter?" Neville Longbottom gaped down at them.

Harry immediately closed up. He nodded curtly. "Longbottom." Draco put an arm around him protectively.

"We all thought you were dead, Potter."

"You might as well go on thinking that." Harry stood up and turned his back to Neville.

"So, uh, what have you been up to?" Neville asked. He twisted his hands awkwardly.

Draco got to his feet. "He doesn't want to talk to you," he said with quiet menace.

Neville blinked. "Ah, all right. Sorry to have bothered you." He walked a few steps, stopped, half-turned, shook his head, muttered to himself. "I-I think maybe you were right," he said tentatively.

"Thank you for your support. Too bad it's nearly two years too late," Harry said bitterly.

Neville bowed his head and shuffled off. Draco remembered how the other Gryffindors had turned against Harry. Even the Weasleys had started shunning him. And the Slytherins... Draco flushed with guilt when he remembered the things he'd said to Harry, things that were made even more reprehensible by the fact that Draco had already known by then that Harry was right. He put his arms around Harry from the back. "Are you all right?"

"You just can't keep your hands off me, can you."

"No. I can't. Does that bother you?"

Harry put his hands over Draco's. "No. Can we stay like this for a little while?"

Draco's band was playing that night at a sticky-floored dive called the Thirsty Dog. Harry looked at the spray-painted bed-sheet that hung behind the tiny platform that served as a stage. "The Stoopid Basturds. Snappy name, Draco."

"I didn't pick it. I just play guitar." Draco pulled the hair of his crown back and secured it with a rubber band. "And it's Drake, remember? Muggles think Draco is a pretentious stage name."

It was basic three-chord punk with shouted vocals. The crowd was small, but obstreperous. "Looks like we're getting paid in beer again tonight," the singer shouted as a Doc Marten sailed past his head.

During a break, Harry said to Draco, "You should sing. You've got a much better voice than Derb."

Derb, who'd been standing right behind Harry, hit him with a sharp elbow. "Thank you for your input, Yoko."

The bass player laughed into his beer. "Derb made a Beatles joke. Very cutting edge."

"Most rabid cats have better singing voices than Derb," the drummer said as he lit another cigarette.

"Fuck you all to hell." Derb stormed off.

"Honestly, why is he in the band?" Harry asked.

"He owns the spray-painted bed-sheet," Draco said.

The second set started, and Harry was at the foot of the stage, watching Draco avidly. Draco stared back, heating up as he remembered the things they'd done the night before. Harry wiggled his hips a little in time to the music, and Draco was glad he wore his guitar low; there were some things the audience didn't need to see.

During the last song, a man Draco recognized from Dancey's stood beside Harry and put his hand on the boy's hip. Harry sidestepped the touch, but smiled at the man. The Snake awoke and jumped into Draco's chest, thrashing its tail and hissing. Draco ended the song with a blast of feedback and threw his guitar down, the drums and bass feebly trailing away as the other members of the band exchanged confused glances. "Get your hands off of him," he snarled at the man, giving him a shove.

"Draco-Drake-stop it, he didn't know I don't hook any more," Harry protested.

An image jumped into Draco's head of that man, with his thinning hair and thick hands, doing things to Harry that only Draco should be allowed to do. The Snake was in his head, making his vision go red. His fist swung out, hitting Harry on the chin, rocking the black-haired boy backwards.

The impact made Draco's mind clear instantly. He saw the mask of indifference fall on Harry's face. It was far worse than a look of fear or sadness would have been, because Draco knew then that Harry had been hit before. Many times.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to follow Harry, but people kept getting in his way. On purpose. "It's all right," he tried to tell them, "I didn't mean it. I won't hit him again." By the time he got to the door, Harry was long gone.

...

Draco stared at his reflection. The moon-pale skin and hair. The pointed chin. The sharp nose. The eyes the color of smoke. _Merlin_. It was like looking at his father. Draco wondered if he dyed his hair, got plastic surgery, did _anything_ to disguise the fact that he was Lucius Malfoy's son, would that obliterate the Lucius-like aspects of his personality?

Draco leaned on the sink and closed his eyes. He couldn't stop his brain from throwing out images of Harry shooting heroin again, working for his pimp again, selling his body to any man with money... The Snake rose up, growling. Draco clutched his stomach and moaned softly, tears leaking from his tightly closed eyes. He loved Harry so much, but now he was just another bastard who'd hit him.

His flat-mate pounded on the door again. "If you don't get out of there right now, I'm going to shit on your rug!" Draco threw the door open, glaring. His flat-mate took in the tears and smirked. "Boyfriend left you, then?"

Draco shoved past his flatmate with a curse. Out the door, down four flights of stairs out onto the street, pounding the sidewalk with his booted feet. The sun rose, London's daytimers awoke, and Sunday morning started. Church bells sounded faintly. Draco wandered aimlessly, too restless to stand still.

"Spare some change? Spare some change?" The thin, black-haired boy boy worked the Sunday morning pedestrians, squatting against a graffittied brick wall.

"Harry?" Draco loved saying the name. It had no plosives or stops; it was all exhalation, like a sigh. Harry looked up, face stiffly set into a look of disinterest. Draco knelt so they were eye to eye. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He reached out and gently took Harry's face in his hands. Harry flinched, but didn't pull away. "Just give me another chance. I won't hurt you again, I swear. You belong to me. You belong to me. You belong to me. You belong to _me_."

...

The Stoopid Basturds were done playing, but Harry and Draco were far from ready to go to home for the night. "What do you want to do now?" Draco asked.

"Have you ever heard it said that London is as deep as it is high?" Harry replied.

"No. What does that mean?"

Harry took Draco by the hand and led him to a set of steps in a dim back corner of the Thirsty Dog. Harry took his wand out and lit the tip with a Lumos as they descended. At the bottom was a cellar full of beer kegs. Harry headed for a back corner. There was an ancient-looking wooden door that was boarded shut. The two boys exchanged glances, then hit the door with simultaneous 'Alohamoras'. The nails shot out of the door so hard, they became wedged in the wall opposite, and the boards hit the floor. The door swung open.

Harry stuck the tip of his wand in, illuminating a set of steps leading downwards. They were of ancient stone, and trod by so many feet that they were worn down in the middle. Draco leaned in, lowering his lit wand. All he could see was more stairs going down, down, down. "Shall we?" Harry asked, grinning.

"Of course."


End file.
